


Rarely Pure and Never Simple

by lightspire



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Doctor who season 8 - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hugs, Music, One Shot, Smut, Telepathic Bond, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 06:37:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2611997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightspire/pseuds/lightspire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are breaking a habit. Clara and the Doctor are going to try hugging again, but this time, things will be different. This time they will look at each other. No more perfect hiding, no more veils, no more lies.</p><p>Timeframe: Some weeks after Death in Heaven.  Title from: “The truth is rarely pure and never simple.” – Oscar Wilde</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rarely Pure and Never Simple

It was the Doctor’s idea.

“Let me get this straight.” Clara glances around the TARDIS console room, then looks up at the Doctor and frowns. “You want to try hugging again, but I have to stand on the steps to do it?”

“You’re too short.”

“Seriously?” she raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. “We hugged before without needing a stepladder. Besides, I can’t help it if you’re a giant stick insect.”

“Clara,” he sighs, exasperated. “Please just do as you’re told.”

“And why should I do that?” she folds her arms across her chest.

He looks down at her and takes a deep breath before speaking again.

“I want to look into your eyes,” he says, his voice low. “I need to see your face.”

_Never trust a hug. It’s just a way to hide your face._

Oh. Well then. “I see.”

“Do you?”

She glances down, ashamed, then lifts her chin up to look him straight in the eye.

“You need to know I’m not lying or trying to hide something from you.”

_Me and Danny, we are going to be fine._

“Yes.” He sighs, hanging his head. “And I want you to see me, too.”

_I’ve found Gallifrey._

“I owe you that much,” he adds.

She thinks about this for a moment, and nods. “Yes. You do. Fair enough.”

Clara hops up onto the bottom step of the TARDIS console room stairway, the one that leads up to the ornate scrolled bookcase. He stands one step below her, on the main platform.

“Is this better?”

“Almost.” He crinkles his brow thoughtfully for a second, gets an “Aha!” look in his eyes, and quickly reaches down to untie his favorite pair of Doc Marten boots. He kicks them off and stands there in his red and black striped socks, wiggling his toes. Shoeless, he’s another inch shorter, and can nearly look Clara in the eye now. She giggles.

“Now it’s better.” He smiles and takes a step towards her.

Clara smiles back from her perch on the stair, and opens her arms expectantly.

“Am I on the clock now?”

“Not this time,” he says. “No need to hurry; we’ve got a time machine.” He moves to face her, and spreads his hands apart. “Ready when you are.”

She flashes him a big grin, and reaches up to wrap her arms around his neck. His slender arms encircle her waist in return. His grip is soft and comforting, and for the first time he’s not stiff with tension.

Because this time, it’s different. This time they look at each other, face to face. No more perfect hiding. No more veils. No more lies.

This is a hug he trusts.

They hold each other silently, breathing in harmony with the gentle hum of the time rotor, his steel blue eyes gazing into her brown ones.

Clara looks at the Doctor, really _looks_ \-- and a flood of conflicting feelings races through her mind. She’s afraid of being judged for her past actions, but at the same time grateful for the chance to see his face again. She desperately wants to be forgiven. She wants him to know how much he means to her, that he’s the closest person in the whole world to her. And she can’t help but notice the incredible blue of his eyes, like the color of the sky after a storm; the way his silver hair frames his face in waves; and how elegantly handsome he is. Not to mention the way that he is looking at her. It’s a bit like looking into a mirror.

A mixture of emotions flickers across the Doctor’s face as he regards her. There is amusement tinged with sadness, mixed with something else – affection? It’s confusing. She has so many feelings, all at once, but there’s no place to hide from the Doctor’s intense gaze.

After a long moment, the force of his stare becomes too much for her, and Clara turns her head to rest her cheek on his chest. He doesn’t object, and pulls her tighter. He’s seen what he needs to see.

She presses her ear to his ribs so she can hear his double heartbeats.

 _Clara, Clara, Clara, Clara_ , they seem to say, four beats, over and over.

He caresses her back, tentative, afraid of startling her. He needn’t have worried. She sighs contentedly, breathing in the scent of him: a heady mixture of wool, old books, and lightning. She has missed this.

A minute passes, then the Doctor pulls back a bit, his expression wistful. Clara looks up at him, curious. He raises his right hand to her shoulder, his long fingers tracing the outline of a silver bow tie on her black cardigan. She smiles at that, and returns the gesture by reaching under his red-lined coat to wriggle a fingertip through a hole in his jumper. He cocks an eyebrow, and smirks.

_I see you._

When his expression turns suddenly sad again, Clara’s heart breaks a little. She wants to make this right, to fix it, but doesn’t know how. All she knows is that she has a compelling need to comfort him.

Tenderly, she reaches up with her right hand to trace his left eyebrow with her fingertips. He tenses a bit, but then relaxes under her gentle touch. She feels his eyelashes brush her palm when he closes his eyes, trusting her. This gift of trust emboldens her, and she continues her study of his face.

She trails her fingers over the creases at the corner of his eye, across his cheekbone and down the ridge of his aquiline nose, then strokes the line at the side of his mouth. When her fingertips brush the edge of his slightly parted lips, his breath hitches, just a little. She caresses his chin, feeling the slight prickle of grey stubble, and finally places her hand on his cheek, lightly resting it there.

He opens his eyes again, and gazes at her, his expression inscrutable. He leans into her touch then turns his face to place a tender kiss into her palm. Clara feels her own breath catch in her throat. He hasn’t kissed her hand since…

_Beautiful fragile human skin. Like parchment._

Then the Doctor does something truly unexpected. He clasps her hand in his own, and turns her palm towards his chest, where he presses it between his hearts. She is moved by the gesture, and feels a steady warmth spread through her upper body.

He watches her, and there is more to his expression now: so much more. There is understanding … and a hint of fear? And love. She feels guilty; she doesn’t deserve it, any of it. Especially not the love.

_Do you think I care for you so little that betraying me would make a difference?_

The power of his gaze nearly overwhelms her, and she looks away again. The Doctor lifts his hands to her face and gently cups her cheeks, turning her face back towards his. He gives her a small reassuring smile.

“Clara. I’m still here. Let me show you.”

His skin is soft and cool to the touch as he caresses her earlobes with the tips of his fingers. He glances down at her lips, and when he looks into her eyes again, his pupils are dilated and dark, his eyelids hooded, a new expression on his face: Desire.

She forgets to breathe.

_I thought I hated you._

He brushes his thumb lightly over her lips.

_I could never hate you._

He leans closer, and she can feel his warm breath on her mouth. She inhales, a gasp escaping her lips, as her eyelids flutter shut.

She wonders what he tastes like.

And then, she knows.

He tastes of black coffee, seven sugars, and starlight.

_You kissed me._

_You blushed._

She blushes.

Suddenly, the kiss is more than a kiss. The Doctor’s mind connects with hers, first as a tingle, then a crackle of golden energy, then the rush of the time winds flowing through her where skin touches skin.

She sees what he sees: beauty darkness life death rebirth, endless possibility, eternity. She feels what he feels: grief fear anger joy wonder forgiveness regret resolve…and love – so much love.

Her past and future echoes quiver along their intertwined timelines, each filament sounding a clear note, vibrating like the strings of a universe-sized harp. Strange but beautiful celestial music fills her mind, becoming louder and more complex, forming a symphony of light, of connection, of time.

Stunned, Clara staggers backwards, breaking the connection, and stares at him, wide-eyed and breathless.

“What…?”

His expression changes from startled to embarrassed in the blink of an eye, his hands still suspended in air on either side of her face.

“Psychic link.”

He blushes, and stuffs his hands into his pockets.

“I … I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I’ve made an error.”

“No.” She’s still panting, catching her breath. “Don’t be.” She rests her hands on his shoulders, and a question occurs to her. “Is it always like that in your head? So loud?”

_So beautiful._

“Yes. Well, sort of. Sometimes. No, not really. … Agh.”

“Explain.”

He rubs his hand over his face, and tries again. “It’s usually more like background static that I can tune into when I want. It’s only exactly like _that_ , ” he points towards her,“when I’m connected to someone else -- specifically you. Apparently.”

She stares at him, considering the implications of this, her eyes still wide with wonder. For once, Clara Oswald is at a loss for words.

“Yeah. Sorry. Won’t happen again.” He fiddles with a button on his coat cuff, his expression almost shy.

“Don’t you dare,” she warns.

“I won’t.”

“I mean, you idiot, don’t you dare take that away from me.” 

That’s when Clara pulls him close and kisses him passionately on the mouth. Shocked, he hesitates, but only for a second, then opens to her completely as realization dawns. He reaches his hands up towards her temples and re-establishes the connection.  

His tongue slips between her lips, gentle at first, exploring. When it tickles the back of her front teeth, she cannot stop the small moan of pleasure that escapes her throat. His echoing sound is a mixture of a low growl and a laugh. The control freak has lost control, and he wants more.

He gets it. She tugs at his lips, sucks on his tongue, and groans into his mouth, eager to feel her body resonate with his, hungry to match their touches to the ribbons of music soaring through her.

Still kissing her, the Doctor shifts his hands away from her temples, and the music softens to a background hum.

“Turned the volume down a little,” he murmurs. In response, Her hands slide up into the dark hair at the nape of his neck that curls _just so_.  It’s as soft as she’d always imagined, and she runs her fingers through it, up towards the fluff of silver hair that sweeps from the top of his head.

Their bodies press together, heart to hearts. Clara, her senses heightened by the telepathic contact, can hear how her own quickened heartbeat mingles with the rhythm of the Timelord’s, adding a reckless cadence to the song that enfolds them.

He skims one hand down her neck to her shoulder, caressing her collarbone along the way. The other hand tangles in her hair. He breaks the kiss, and then moves to nip at her jaw, her ear, her neck. He presses his tongue into the sensitive hollow between her neck and shoulder and she makes little inarticulate noises of pleasure. She leans into his mouth, head thrown back and lips parted, and drags her nails lightly across his scalp, pulling him closer.

“Clara. My Clara.” He whispers her name into her skin. “I need you.” It is a mixture of plea and command. He bites gently at her neck again, and says something in Gallifreyan, a liquid warbling sound that the TARDIS doesn’t translate.

But she knows somehow, through a distant fragment of herself, that he’s saying her name in the ancient language of his homeworld. When the Doctor says it again, it is a hymn. A benediction.

Heat pools in her belly and her knees weaken. She wonders if she should stop this.  

_I thought that’s what you wanted._

The memory strikes a sour note. Maybe she _should_ pull away now. Before it’s too late to escape the event horizon of the black hole that is the Doctor: the man who threatens to swallow her whole if she gets too close.

_All gone now. Gobbled up by that beast._

He senses her thoughts, hears the song falter. He pauses, raises his head, and looks into her eyes, questioning.

“Are you sure about this?”

She stares back at him. “Are you?”

_Have you ever been sure?_

“Yes.”

Stopping isn’t what she wants. She lets him know by sliding her hands up under the lapels of his jacket and shoving it off his shoulders and down his arms. He shrugs and the coat slides to the floor in a crumpled heap of red and blue. She kisses him again, grazing his lower lip with her teeth and sliding her tongue across it.

_Let’s keep going._

He grabs her by the hips then, pulling her against him, hard. She can feel his arousal against her leg and she whimpers, desire flooding her core. They kiss more frantically as the Doctor slides his left hand up her ribcage and under her cardigan. He massages her breast, circling the nipple with his fingertips and feeling it harden under his touch. He reaches up to undo the buttons with his other hand, and Clara helps him. She pulls the cardigan off and tosses it to the floor atop his jacket.

“Too many damn buttons,” he grumbles, working at the front of her white blouse. Finally he gets her shirt off and with practiced movements, unhooks her bra. Both garments are soon on the floor, leaving her exposed and breathless under his heated stare.

“Your turn,” she says, reaching for his jumper.

He doesn’t flinch. Clara slithers her hands under his clothes and pulls the jumper over his head, messing up his hair and turning it into a wild jumble of salt-and-pepper curls. It’s untamed, like he is, and it suits him.

The Doctor’s body is wiry and thin, but strong, with a dusting of slate-gray hair on his chest and forearms. She slides her hands over his nipples and gently scrapes them with her nails. He growls and leans down to kiss the top of her breast, plucking at her skin with his lips, his hands gliding down the curve of her backside. She arches her back into him, silently asking for more. He takes one nipple into his mouth and sucks it gently at first, then harder, until she cries out, not in pain, but in frustration, until he releases her.

Clara pushes him backwards and reaches for his belt buckle. She quickly undoes the belt and the button on his trousers, then palms his erection through his clothing, stroking lightly. He hisses and bucks against her, trying to increase the pressure, but his own sounds of longing are quickly muffled by her mouth. She’s in control again, and smiles to herself.

She unzips his trousers and slides them down over his hips. They fall to the floor and he neatly steps out of them, no shoes in the way to hamper their removal.

_Oh, you clever boy. You naughty, clever boy. No shoes._

 Between kisses, her voice husky and breathy, Clara whispers, “Bedroom. Now.”

“Now?” He slides his hand up under her skirt and traces the edge of her knickers.

“Now.”

Instead of complying, he slips two fingers beneath the cloth and grazes her clit.

“Mmmf”. She can’t help herself. She pushes against his fingers, seeking friction even as he teasingly withdraws his hand and places it on her thigh.

“Do.” She kisses him. “As.” Another kiss. “You’re told,” she orders.

He leers at her. “Yes Ma’am.”

She’s about to scold him for that, but stops when she sees the mischievous smile playing across his face. They both burst out laughing. The veil is lifted again, and the battle for control isn’t a battle anymore; it’s just funny.

Smiling, arms wrapped around each other’s waists, they make their way to the Doctor’s bedroom, which the TARDIS has conveniently moved right next to the Console room.

“Finally approve of Clara, do you?” The Doctor chuckles and pats the old girl fondly.

Clara has never been in here before, and she gasps when she sees the high domed ceiling, its surfaces covered with a holographic projection of the space outside the TARDIS. She recognizes the location at once: the Magellan Star Cluster, with its massive planet-eating black hole at the center. It’s the site of their not-last hurrah.

“You really are a hopeless romantic, aren’t you, Doctor?”

“I just thought this would be a good one….”

“To start again.” She finishes his sentence. “Yeah, it is. It’s a good choice. A good one to start on.” He nods, looking into her eyes once more.

Overcome by curiosity, Clara glances around the room. To one side is a large leather reading chair, an old-fashioned lamp, and a blackboard covered in the Doctor’s scrawl. Next to the chair is a table overflowing with books, a clock, a small sketchbook and a handful of pencils stuffed into a chipped blue mug.

The other side of the room is taken up by a large, spare, platform bed, covered by a thin black duvet sprinkled with tiny glowing stars. Red silk sheets peek out from under the blanket. Round things glow softly on the walls, casting shadows over their bodies in the dim light.

They embrace each other and kiss again, more leisurely now. The Doctor moves them towards the bed, his hands wandering over her bare skin. They leave what’s left of their clothing in a trail scattered behind them on the floor.

They take their time, exploring, learning, and mapping every dip, curve, ridge, and tender spot of each other’s bodies with their mouths, their hands, their fingers. She ruffles the hairs on the back of his forearm; he tickles the back of her knee with his tongue. Together they caress, and sigh, and moan; every place they touch is a new note, a new stanza added to the song they are composing together.

At one point Clara hesitates again, just before he enters her for the first time. He has opened himself to her, mind, body and soul, and that infinite well of eternity threatens to swallow her up so that she risks losing herself –- losing control -- again. She orbits the unbounded darkness that is _him_ for a moment, and he is gentle with her, letting her take her time.

_I will never give up the Doctor._

Decision made, she grabs his cock with her hand and pulls him towards her. He needs no further invitation, and sheaths himself inside her with a sigh. He thrusts into her slowly at first, then more quickly as their shared need increases. Together they move in time, the music of their lovemaking rising and falling, a soaring aria swelling to a grand crescendo when he spills inside her, calling her name: _Clara. My Clara_. She cries out her own release while she buries her fingers in his thick silver hair.

Afterwards, enfolded in his arms, she sleeps. He watches her.

He knows she’s not all right yet, and neither is he. But maybe this time around they will be, if they stop hiding from the truth and from each other.

And this time, there is no hurry; they’ve got a time machine.

The TARDIS, too, is patient. She cradles them in her safe embrace, suspended in time, humming the music of the universe.


End file.
